The Tibbs Reader: 1851
Fort Conifer, 27th September, 1851.
SIR,— Having in my report, dated at the Pendleton River on the 10th June, and addressed to Sir A. von Klacik J. Grant, communicated the details and result of my spring journey over the ice, snow, and slippery little frosts along the Lankville Boreal Shores, I have now the honour to acquaint you that the boats expedition under my command, which visited the Great Polar Ocean this summer, arrived here yesterday in safety, but I regret to say without having gained any information of Sir J. Tibbs and party.
The morning of the 4th August being lusciously fine and clear, land was seen in one or two directions in which it had not been previously noticed, and bearings were taken of it. The islands were bereft of all flora and fauna although we did then discover a small satchel of groceries upon the shore of the nearer which did contain therein curious canisters of beans and many empty bottles of diverse spirits. The young ice did not thaw until after the tenth hour after which, by great perseverance, we made very tolerable progress. Working all night, and sometimes aided by the sails and the burner, at 7h. 15m. a.m., on the 5th, we landed on the Western shore of Heinish Bay, and after staying 3 hours again probed on; but the ice being thinner, and consequently more closely packed on the shore, we had great difficulty in making headway, and were at last obliged to wait the rise of the tide at a point in Krimpett Bay.
We remained here 3 hours, and had an interview with a party of Region Natives. Our interpreter, a Region Native named Whapcornuck had intercourse (verbal) with this tribe who did report the presence some time ago of a large white man holding a sphere to the heavens on many an occasion. We then again commenced creeping along the shore, and had proceeded but a short distance when we did discover a rounded sphere of pine-wood which excited feverish interest and seemed to corroborate the account of these savages. In appearance it was remarkable– nigh so perfectly spherical as to appear other-worldly. It had a curious mark, resembling the letters “t” and “d” and apparently stamped upon one side, and at a few feet distant from the globe there was a bit of white line in the form of a loop nailed into a crude cross with two copper tacks. Both the line and the tacks bore the Ninth Republic Government mark, the broad arrow being stamped on the latter, and the former having a red worsted thread running through it.
We had not advanced a 1/2 mile when another sphere was discovered lying in the water, but touching the beach. This was a piece of oak, perhaps 9.0-9.5 inches in diameter and uniformly round. The sphere had the appearance of having been pushed into or through a clasp or band of iron, as there was a mark of 3 inches broad across it and small pocks and dents which circumnavigated the mysterious orb. And it was also discovered, quite nearby, the remaining part of a stanchion (as I suppose it to have been) which had been formed in a turning-lathe, and was 3 inches in diameter.
As there may be some difference of opinion regarding the direction from which these globes of wood came, it may not be out of place to express here my own opinion on the subject.
From the circumstance of the flood-tide coming from the northward, along the Eastern shore of Upper Craughing Land, there can be no doubt but there is a water-channel dividing Upper Craughing Land from The Northern Cloister, and through this channel I believe these globes have been carried along with the immense quantities of ice that a long continuance of northerly and north-easterly winds, aided by the flood-tide, had driven southward. I shall here opine that this same flood-tide carried forth the satchel of groceries. The ebb-tide not having power enough to carry these items back again against the wind, the large bay immediately S. of Medium Craughing Strait became perfectly filled with ice, even up to the S. shore of Northern Cloiser Land. Both orbs of wood appear to have come to shore about the same time, and they must have been carried in by the flood-tide that was at the time flowing on during the previous ebb ; for the simple reason, that although they were touching the beach they did not rest upon it.
The spot where they were found was in lat. 61′ 49′ N. ; long. 98° 17′ W.
I have the honour to remain,
Sir, your most obedient servant,
Elijah Pangborn
Reveries of a Solitary Lurker
Today there is more recollection than creation in the products of my imagination, a tepid languor saps all my faculties, the vital spirit is gradually dying down within me, my soul no longer flies up without effort from its decaying prison of flesh, and were it not for the hope of a state to which I aspire because I feel that it is mine by right, I should now live only in the past. The solitary lurker is an agent of the past; in his lurking, he embodies the past; this is the aspect from which society turns its head. Thus if I am to contemplate myself before my decline, I must go back several years to the time when, losing all hope for this life and finding no food left on earth for my soul, I gradually learnt to feed it on its own substance and seek all its nourishment in the act of lurking.
The country was still green and pleasant, but it was deserted and many of the leaves had fallen; everything gave an impression of solitude and impending winter. This picture evoked mixed feelings of gentle sadness which were too closely akin to my age and my experience for me not to make the comparison. I saw myself at the close of an innocent and unhappy life, with a soul still full of intense feelings and a mind still adorned with a few flowers, even if they were already blighted by sadness and withered by care. Alone and neglected, I could feel the approach of the first frosts and my failing imagination no longer filled my solitude with beings formed after the desires of my heart. Sighing I said to myself: What have I done in this world? I was created to live, and I am dying without having lived.
God is just; his will is that I should suffer, and he knows my innocence. That is what gives me confidence. My heart and my reason cry out that I shall not be disappointed. Let men and fate do their worst, we must learn to suffer in silence, everything will find its proper place in the end and sooner or later my turn will come.
Daytime is a curse. The sun its accomplice. I pray for dusk knowing all the while my prayers have no effect on the rotation of the heavenly spheres. Yet, I pray for the cloak of night; the cover under which I may lurk with my sordid memories. Away from their prying eyes; but not they mine.
PEOPLE OF LANKVILLE: There’s a First Time for Everything
LDN: What is your name and what do you do?
BB: My name is Brock Belvedere, Jr. and I was a journalist.
LDN: So, I guess I’ll get right to the point, Brock. People really want to know if you’re dead or not.
BB: I am.
LDN: Seems impossible.
BB: There’s a first time for everything.
LDN: What’s dead being like?
BB: It’s alright. It’s really hard to get anything good to eat though. The only options are fast food subs and candy. And there’s no water. Just sodas.
LDN: Have you had any luck trying to convince girls to go out with you? I know you’ve gone as high as offering to pay 75% of all expenses.
BB: It’s tough. I have an unusual face. Takes some getting used to. But sometimes they come around. I did recently get a haircut.
LDN: It looks the same as in your photograph.
BB: Yes. Your point?
LDN: Anything else you’d like to add?
BB: My sudden death has been difficult on my dear mother. And, unfortunately, the backwards thinking wretches at the Pizza A’Round are no longer allowing her to spend eight hours in the dining room while I run errands. The blatant ageism is quite shocking in our supposedly advanced society.
LDN: Alright.
The interview collapsed.
The Tibbs Reader: Skipper Tibbs
Tibbs sat in the dark hotel room and watched the lights of the nearby ballpark flick off slowly. There was a light mist on the window.
He opened the leather-bound hymnal and removed the browning newspaper clipping. For the thousandth time, he read it.
Mrs. Mary E. Tibbs, wife of Skipper Tibbs, died June 30, aged 29 years. Mrs. Tibbs escaped from the State Hospital for the Insane at La Hardy on the night of June 29 and on the morning of June 30, was found in the park, the arteries in her left wrist severed and nearly dead from the loss of blood. She died the afternoon of the same day. Deceased had been a terrible sufferer for many months from blood poisoning and melancholia and the best of medical attendance found no remedy to relieve the diseases that slowly but surely sapped her life and mental faculties away. She leaves a husband and two small children to mourn her early death, to whom the sympathy of the entire community is sincerely and lusciously tendered.
Tibbs returned the clipping to the hymnal and placed it in the side drawer of the end table.
He went down to the lobby. Rolly, the young reliever, was sitting in a chair looking at travel brochures.
“Engaging in the corruption of reason, I see,” Tibbs said.
Rolly stared at him blankly.
“Skip, I…I was thinking of getting myself a little place in the desert. See, they got these little trailers there. I could use my signing bonus.”
Tibbs reflected on this.
“To live alone, one must be either a maniac or a God,” he finally proffered.
Rolly stared at him blankly.
Young Tibbs was in the locker room polishing the bats. The players began to enter one by one.
“HELLO!” the child boomed to each. “WHAT A DELIGHTFUL DAY FOR A BALL GAME!”
The players stared at him. Castleman, the second baseman, picked up his bat.
“Christ, the damn thing will be too slick to swing. What the hell are you using?” He stared down at the yellow metal container by young Tibbs’ side.
“I AM PREENING THE WOOD. THESE BATS ARE THE HAMMERS OF THE IDOLS!”
“There’s something wrong with that kid,” Schmitz whispered.
Skipper Tibbs knew very little about his father. The man had been a drunk. He had once driven his farm tractor into the barn, knocking away a supporting beam. The tractor held up the barn for many years afterwards and nothing had been planted. “Things just got completely out of hand,” he explained. “I prefer not to know many things.” He then disappeared into the attic.
His mother died of a disease of the kidneys and he had been sent away from the Snowy Lake District to La Hardy at age 8. His brother Harry was 14. They had taken a local short line to a desolate wooden shack of a station and waited there eight hours in the snow. They had seen nobody until nearly night when a railroad man dressed in faded overalls had emerged from the woods and urinated into the snow. As he urinated, he gyrated strangely. Then he went back into the woods.
Skipper walked over. The man had written his name in pee. “Wendell.”
The team lost 5-0. It had misted the whole game.
“If we look backward,” Tibbs commented, “we will begin to believe backwards.”
“Got to have some way of measuring time,” Douglass commented.
“I’m glad you are engaging with a formula for happiness, Douglass,” Tibbs noted. “There may be hope for your record after all.”
Young Tibbs had hollered the entire game keeping up the loud, booming chatter throughout. The men began to inch away from his perch at the far dugout wall.
Dressen, the umpire, finally walked over.
“Keep that kid’s trap shut, Tibbs,” he called.
Skipper Tibbs laughed.
“Need I explain, Dressen, how the boy fascinates his audience? He will be a physician, a savior and you will see that tomorrow in the blinding daylight.”
Dressen stared blankly.
The Tibbs Reader stories will continue in future issues.
The Tibbs Reader: Schmitz and Douglass
It was during the Second Great Lankville Slump of 1936 that two fading, alcoholic pitchers named Schmitz and Douglass were assigned to a lower-level club in the Southern Hill Area.
Both were bachelors. Both were unrepentant inebriates. They split a series of dark rooms above a musical instruction studio on Main Street and were awakened each morning, heads throbbing, by the incompetent twang of student guitarists or the flatulent toot of student trumpeters, always and inevitably followed by the hysterical voice of Sternweiss, the owner and teacher.
Schmitz and Douglass were both ugly men- another commonality. A sportswriter had once referred to the pair as “resembling lurking undertakers”. Both were scrawny and not particularly athletic in appearance with angular features, hook noses and perpetual dark stubble.
It was during a May game against the Basin Area that Schmitz was knocked out of the box early, the end-game being a mammoth three-run homer that cleared an abandoned farmhouse a hundred feet beyond the left field wall. The small crowd razzed him mercilessly.
When Schmitz repaired to the cramped, ill-lit clubhouse, Douglass was already waiting, half out of uniform.
“C’mon, let’s blow this bing.”
They drove around for awhile, putting down four beers each, then stopped and bought a bottle of Old Lankville. Eventually Schmitz parked in back of a four-story brick Women’s Hospital.
“All kinds of thatched cottage in that place,” Douglass commented.
“Yeah, but it’s all diseased.”
Douglass thought about that.
“Well, maybe not the nurses.”
“I concede to your counterpoint,” Schmitz proffered.
The next day both Schmitz and Douglass expected a chewing out but instead they found that Bragan, the old Island skipper had been fired or had left on his own accord (the matter was never made clear) and a grim little man named Tibbs had been named as his replacement.
Tibbs seemed to derive no pleasure at all from the game. “I’ve told my boys to go into the hotel business,” he said during his first audience with the club which took place in a ceaseless mist during the pre-game batting practice. The park was silent and eerie– no one had bothered to put the lights on. “This here game is no manner of lifestyle. I was in the big league for six years, boys, and even THAT was no manner of lifestyle. Yessir, this game is a nugatory amusement in the most cosmic of direct essences.”
“The hotel business is a grand tradition,” Tibbs said suddenly, after a long pause. His uniform fit him poorly and his striped socks sagged as though they were pulled down by some great weight. He then launched into a long history of innkeeping which he kept up at various points throughout the entirety of the game that followed that evening.
The next night, Tibbs’ son served as bat boy. He looked nothing like his father– he was round-faced, cheery and loud, booming a series of exhortations with each pitch. When the aging slugger Moss homered in the 5th, the boy was sent into a series of nigh-diabolical spasms of joy and was the first to greet the startled Moss at the plate after the obligatory rounding of the bases.
“WHAT A DELIGHT!” he chortled in a voice unnaturally deep for a 10-year old.
Schmitz, drunk, entered the game in the 7th with the score tied 4-4. He struck out a 35-year old opium addict who had once played centerfield for the Capital Bats, then walked two straight and permitted an infield single. Tibbs made his way slowly to the mound as twilight emerged and the lighting flicked on erratically. Moths gathered beneath the dim illumination. The crowd murmured oddly.
“Schmitz,” Tibbs said when he finally reached the mound. “There is no reason for any of this. I’m speaking metaphysically.”
He spat, turned around and walked back to the dugout.
Schmitz proceeded to allow a grand slam home run to the number eight hitter.
They were driving around again. “I don’t have anything left,” Schmitz said. “My drop pitch and fade away are gone.”
Douglass thought about that. “You could start loading the ball. Nobody gives a damn.”
Schmitz spit out the window as the cattle fence posts whizzed by.
In the clubhouse the next day, the trainer Weintz, a stone bald man whose only remedy for anything seemed to be an alcohol rubdown, had an old copy of The Lankville Baseball Register. Some of the players were looking up Tibbs’ record.
“Batted .314 one year,” Castleman, the second baseman, noted. Schmitz stared at the small printing. It meant nothing to him. He couldn’t read a word.
“Noticed that,” Weintz said. “Even hit .290 in his last year. Wonder why the hell he gave it up?”
Tibbs came in then. He wore a crumpled black suit and a tie. The tie had a cactus on it.
“Well boys. Let’s hustle out to the field. Not that there is any conceivable reason for us to do so. This is everyday being for death.”
The clubhouse emptied into another light mist.
It was Douglass’ turn to get hit around. He started and went 3 innings, allowing 8 runs.
“Sorry, skip,” he said, as he handed Tibbs the ball in the 4th. “My fastball didn’t have any zip on it tonight.” He watched as a fresh-faced kid who had joined the team that day jogged in from the bullpen.
“Pitching is just a self-projection upon the actual possibility of being in the world, Douglass,” Tibbs said. He rubbed the ball with his small hands. “Douglass, you need to delimit your range of experienced phenomena.”
“I’m ready skip!” the kid reliever yelled. He was shaking.
“Didn’t you hear what I just said about delimiting your range of experienced phenomena?” Tibbs barked at the rookie.
Douglass walked off slowly to jeering.
“I ain’t got anything left either,” Douglass said. They were driving around at night again.
“That umpire was squeezing you,” Schmitz noted.
“Who was that guy? Looked familiar.”
“That was Dressen. You remember Dressen?”
Douglass spat out the window and pulled on the beer.
“Dressen, from the old Interstate League,” Schmitz continued. “You should remember him. He hit a moon shot off you back in ’32. God damn thing hit the Lank-Buoy sign on the building across the street from the park. Longest ball I ever seen.”
“Why do we always drive by this same cow pasture?” Douglass asked after a long silence.
Tibbs sat in his room at the hotel. There was a picture of his two boys on the end table. He picked it up and stared at it.
They were both in full Child Scouts regalia. Gump on the left, Lorne on the right. He put the frame back on top of the lace.
“Children have a vulgar concept of time,” he said aloud to no one.
The Tibbs Reader stories will continue in future issues.
Reveries of a Solitary Lurker
A recent event as sad as it was unexpected has finally extinguished this feeble ray of hope and shown me that my earthly destiny is irrevocably fixed for all time. Since then, I have resigned myself utterly and recovered my peace of mind.
All my efforts were in vain and my self-torment of no avail, I took the only course left to me, that of submitting to my fate and ceasing to fight against the inevitable. This resignation has made up for all my trials by the peace of mind it brings me, a peace of mind incompatible with the unceasing exertions of a struggle as painful as it was unavailing.
They were so eager to fill up my cup of misery that neither the power of men nor the stratagems of hell can add one drop to it. Even physical suffering would take my mind off my misfortunes rather than adding to them. Perhaps the cries of pain would save me the groans of unhappiness, and the laceration of my body would prevent that of my heart.
I glance at my watch, knowing already the time. Polish off my Lankbrau and step into the street. Take three longish steps in the direction of a hedge. Mutter to myself “Sweet Melissa” then “hum” then “pleonism.”
SCHROPP INVESTIGATES- THE COTTAGE CHEESE INDUSTRY
After a very, very long absence it’s good to be back writing for The Lankville Daily News. Not only is this a full time gig (making a sweet $7.16 an hour) but I have been given a brand new column!! The fine folks who run this paper wanted a new perspective on cuisine- a more brash, harder look at the food scene. I promised them I was their guy for this sort of thing.
The other big change was saying good bye to my full time position at ‘The Pizza-A-Round’. I knew it was going to be a striking loss for the place, me, being one of the most innovative employees ever to work there. I thought, Scott, my manager, would be very understanding, especially since I was making sixteen more cents a hour. Well, I was very wrong about my assessment of the situation and not only feared for my life at various times during my two week notice but also the safety and well being of my fellow co-buddies and the customers (not to mention the various holes made into walls and pizza-related equipment destroyed). Everything worked itself out my last day there. After a very hellish eight hour shift in which Scott seemed to peak in his fury (not going through one but TWO Assistant Managers in just that shift) he came up to me very calmly with tears in his eyes my last hour there. “Hey Bri, I just wanted to say–” he almost broke down at this point “sorry I couldn’t match the extra sixteen cents the paper is giving you. It’s been a real pleasure having you here.” At this point he grabbed my right shoulder. “And if you ever need any help, I mean- ANYTHING, you come see me–pizza brother.” By now he was squeezing my shoulder a bit too hard causing extreme pain and wetting myself a little. But I knew his sentiment to be true, we had some amazing adventures together, little did I know at the time we weren’t done just yet!!
So the next day it was time to get down and dirty and start my first article for my new column. A pressing question soon arose after my 10 AM breakfast- what should it be about? After being kicked out of the house by my folks (who have NO IDEA that a reporter can work from home) and riding my motorized mini scooter (oh yes, dear readers, another bit of news, I was able to secure a Lankville mini scooter license which I can use only around the Deep Northern Suburban area) the idea hit me all at once. In recent weeks the Deep Northern community has been talking about folks among us getting terribly ill after eating. No one has quite been able to pinpoint exactly what it is making people sick but one common thread seemed to be cottage cheese somewhere in the meal. Well, being an investigative reporter now, I had a hunch on who might be to blame. That’s right, Hank Cameron, the so called General Manager of the grocery chain ‘Foodville’. I parked my mini scooter a few blocks away from the store and crept my way up and into the establishment. Lady Luck was on my side when I saw ‘Mr. Cameron’ already by the cottage cheese and pulling them off the shelves with assistance from his low-level flunky, Benny. Hank seemed pretty animated and upset so I crept behind a display of Vitiello Decorative Hams to get a closer look.
Cameron- “This whole cottage cheese thing is going to ruin the business!”
Benny- “Yup.”
Cameron- “These dolts that live in this godforsaken area use it in everything-fruit salad, taco salad, shrimp salad, any type of salad really.”
Benny- “Yup-yup.”
Cameron- “What disgusting people. I’m just going to return this to the factory and get credit for a new order. No one is even certain it’s the cottage cheese anyways–”
This was all of the conversation I caught as I suddenly fell forward and toppled the Decorative Ham display. I was promptly removed from the premises.
PEOPLE OF LANKVILLE: He Gave Me a Rubber Raincoat
LDN: What is your name and where do you work?
BS: My name is Bryant Shrope and I work at the Quick ‘N Tasty Seafood Stall in Almond Beach.
LDN: What do you do there?
BS: We sell popcorn shrimp!
LDN: Do you make the popcorn shrimp?
BS: No. Craig does.
LDN: Who’s Craig?
BS: He’s my favorite friend in the whole world!
LDN: OK, I guess. Let’s move on. What do you do for fun?
BS: I like to play arcade games. They have this one on the boardwalk that’s really fun. It’s called “Alligators” and you’re in this swamp and you have to avoid alligators.
LDN: And then what?
BS: OH! Well, after you avoid the alligators, then there’s some parts of a communication device that you have to find in the swamps. And when you put all the pieces together, then you can make a call to your home base and they come and rescue you! But it’s really hard to find all the parts. I’ve never found all the parts. And Mr. Bollinger, who owns the arcade, he hates me. I don’t know why but he eventually kicks me out and says a lot of cuss words. He told Craig one time that he was in a bamboo cage for a long time during the Depths War and that he’s really bitter because of it and hates young people. One time, he mailed me a really nice candy assortment and it came in a beautiful box with a floral pattern and it looked very fancy but when you opened the box it was just a steaming pile of excrement. My Mom opened it.
LDN: He sounds unpleasant.
BS: OH– he is! One time, I was playing “Alligators” and he took out a knife and said he was going to cut me to ribbons! But then he didn’t and THANK GOD for that!
LDN: Now is it true you got to meet President Pondicherry?
BS: YES, IT IS! He came to the Quick ‘N Tasty! But he didn’t end up ordering anything because he “didn’t like the look of the place”. But he was very nice. He gave me a rubber raincoat.
LDN: Why?
BS: He said it rains a lot and he said I should be prepared.
LDN: OK. Well, thanks for your time.
BS: OH, ABSOLUTELY! This has been a lot of fun, it really has. But I did want to tell you about my pets…right now, I have…
The interviewer suddenly walked off.
PEOPLE OF LANKVILLE: I Moisten Them in the Morning
LDN: What is your name and where do you work?
BM: My name is Brent McGregory IV and I manage the Sno-Balls stand on Lankville-Craughing Boulevard.
LDN: What does that entail?
BM: I make Sno-Balls. We have over 50 flavors. When business is slow, I try to get people to stop by hurling myself in front of cars on the Boulevard.
LDN: Have you ever been hurt?
BM: No. Why do you ask?
LDN: Tell me about the nice lot you have where people can enjoy their Sno-Balls.
BM: Sure. It’s a paved lot and we have some picnic tables that I built myself. It borders a very nice gas station and a very nice professional building. Behind the lot is a very nice series of weedy hills and then beyond that is some sort of top-secret government testing facility. I don’t know what they test but I do know this– they DO NOT buy Sno-Balls.
LDN: You built the tables yourself?
BM: Yes. My father built picnic tables for a living. But he died. He was killed in a challenge. I mean, that’s what they told us. Feel like I see him around an awful lot though.
LDN: What about the moistened paper towels? Do you have anything to do with that?
BM: Yes. I moisten them in the morning with the hose pump and then place them in the containers. It helps the kids get the sticky Sno-Balls flavoring off their hands and faces. The parents appreciate it.
LDN: I understand that you met your girlfriend here.
BM: Yes! Her name is Nora. She is a wonderful woman– full of life, so optimistic. Especially for someone who has a wasting sickness that has not been identified. She manages a Sno-Balls stand a few miles away. It’s a very tight-knit community.
LDN: Anything else?
BM: Well, have you heard the Good News?
The interview suddenly ended.
The Street Scoop by Otis Nixon
For many years, a short row of parking meters have been located along the 2900 block of Everbrown Avenue, just across from the Lankville Equitable Bank in the Snowy Lake District. Of the few residents who noticed they were there, no one could remember why they had been installed in the first place. To our surprise, when The Lankville Daily News contacted the Lankville Parking and Curbs Authority, they didn’t know why either.
“I pulled some giant tomes off shelves,” noted LPCA employee Jean Stargell. “There was nothing in any of them about any parking meters.”
Just like that, with a simple question from The News, the meters will be no more by summer.
“The process essentially involves beheading the meters and then leaving the posts up for a year or two and then taking the posts down,” noted Stargell. “Or maybe not.”
After speaking with Stargell for a few more moments, I was able to glean some information about her whereabouts. Utilizing the Lankville Real Property Data Digital Workstation, I discovered her home address.
I picked up a six-pack of beer and a pack of short cigars and drove to the house at dusk. Indeed, a squat, shapeless woman was outside watering some dead ferns. A radio played somewhere deep inside the house. I cracked open a beer and watched Jean– I watched her until darkness fell. When she finally went inside, I got out of the car.
There was a little area in between the wraparound porch and the dining room bay window where I could lurk unseen. An overhead maple shielded me from the neighbors. At one point, a strange-looking man wandered by aimlessly, walking a little puffball dog and whispering, “C’mon now Hugs. C’mon. C’mon Hugs. Please urinate, Hugs.” But he didn’t see me.
I am still lurking.
LETTER SACK